In the winter of 1969 a foul storm blew an unknown sea creature onto Duxbury Beach south of Boston. The WBZ radio announcer reported it to be a ‘sea monster’. My brother, sister, and I jumped into our VW and drove through a hard rain to a forlorn stretch of beach. A crowd was gathered around a massive sea creature. Its extremities were frayed by hungry fish. Everyone was offering their opinion on its identity.
A whale, a shark, a octopus.
No one said it was alien, although the shape was unlike anything we had ever seen on Jacques Cousteau’s underwater TV adventures. My brother stepped forward and touched the dead flesh. He put his fingertips to his nose.
“It smells like fish.”
After his assessment the gathering started hacking up the creature. Not to eat, but to store in glass jars and show future generations a piece of the Duxbury monster. The next day the radio said it was a Basking Shark.
Most people threw out their decaying mementos.
Fish stinks after three days and this fish had already been dead a long time.
My brother kept his, although he can recollect where.
Several years ago I thought about this episode while at the Metropolitan Museum. They were exhibiting a floating shark of Damien Hirst. It looked as ratted out as the water-logged Duxbury monster. The town had buried its corpse in the sand.
Damien Hirst’s shark was worth millions.
A dead shark in formaldehyde.
I certainly don’t know shit about art, especially when art collectors around the world shelled out millions on a financial doomsday to purchase recopied original masterpieces of the artist.
By the way copies usually means fakes unless they are by the artist themself, then it’s an original reproduction.
I still don’t know shit about art.